Her jaw dropped.Traitor.“There were three. It made perfect sense.”
“You dress in costume on Jane Austen’s birthday.” Jack nodded, stealing another cookie. Where the man put those calories, she had no idea.
She scoffed. “It’s a sign of respect.”
“And I know how many classic British literature books you own. I moved them. With my own two hands.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. And being well-read does not equal obsession.”
Jack gestured broadly to the shelves of tea tins. “Daphne. All of your specialty blends reference English literature, movies, or gardens.” He sipped his tea. “You’re obsessed.”
“I would like to say to you, brother dear”—the tongs returned as a pointer, this time holding a blueberry muffin—“that I inheritedthis tea shop from Granny. If there is any hint of an obsession, it first began with her. So if you’re going to be snippy about it, I just want to remind you”—Daphne looked toward the ceiling—“that Granny can hear you, you know. Probably.”
Jack should have looked a bit more intimidated by the idea. After all, she was his granny, too, but he just tilted his head toward the ceiling and said, “Granny, your granddaughter caught your obsession and let it spread like monkey grass.”
Daphne huffed, slamming the muffin into a container. “Obsession or not, I can safely say I never want to see my British neighbor again.” Daphne sent a glare toward the opposite brick wall as if it held power enough to sting Mr. Rudeness out of sheer force of will. Her whole body tensed. He’d looked at her with those dreamy, arrogant eyes, then laughed at her and her precious tea shop. Perhaps it was time to fill her movie and book quota with a healthy dose of American heroes instead of English ones.
Maybe some obsessions needed to die.
“He’s staying, at least for now, and I can assure you, you’ll see more of him.” Jack stood, dusting off a few crumbs from his shirt before raising those sharp, knowing eyes to meet hers. “He’s not that bad, Daph.”
Daphne’s entire body came to a standstill, except for her neck, which turned, almost owl-like, toward her brother. “You’ve met him?”
“He’s Harry’s friend, and you know if Harry likes him, he’s got to be all right.”
Harry—the epitome of English grace and welcome. Poised. Pleasant. Polite.
“Everyone makes mistakes in their friendships now and again.”
Jack exhaled a voiceless laugh. “You know how sometimes you can jump to conclusions?”
Her glare was painfully impotent where her brother was concerned.
“And you’re too sweet to hold a grudge.”
“Is that a challenge?” She wrapped up the last blueberry muffin along with a cinnamon scone and placed them in a bag before handing it to Jack.
“He’s got a lot of adjusting to do. New town. New country.” Jack nodded his thanks. “You remember how Harry felt when he first arrived in Wisteria? Poor guy thought everyone was nosy, trying to assault him with Southern hospitality, or attempting to offend him at every turn. We mountain folk can take a minute to get used to.”
And there it came. The post-reaction compassion. Jack was right.
Daphne did not want to weaken.
And yet, the tongs began to lower from their attack stance.
But Daphne’s tea shop deserved a little more fight before she’d give in to the compassion. “But even Harry liked tea.”
“Maybe Finn does too.” Jack shrugged.
Finn? That was the guy’s name?
She frowned. It even sounded English. Was it short for Finnley?
Argh. She didn’t care!
“And not everyone is ready for all the...” Jack opened a palm to the room. “Power of this place.”
Daphne rolled her gaze heavenward. “Granny is still listening.”
